


The Risk I Took Was Calculated, but Man, Am I Bad at Math

by generally



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: F/M, M/M, SQUIP!Michael, Social Anxiety, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generally/pseuds/generally
Summary: When you've run out of options like Michael Mell has, paying $400 to be the world's biggest hypocrite doesn't seem so bad. Until it is.





	1. Chapter 1

When Jeremy and Christine made it official last November, Michael gave it four months, tops.

“I really wanna put together something nice and meaningful for her, but I’m broke right now,” Jeremy was lamenting to him one early October morning, eyes glued to Michael’s TV. “I don’t get paid ‘til next Friday.”

Michael exhaled slowly, declining to mention how Jeremy literally just blew half his last C-Town paycheck on the very same copy of  _ Pac-Man Championship Edition 2  _ they were playing right then. “Good thing your anniversary isn't for another month.”

“That’s the problem!” Jeremy said, flicking around his controller’s joystick like he was trying to churn butter with it. His sprite dodged the orange ghost at the last second. “I waited too long to get her something  _ really  _ good. I went online the other day to look for  _ Dear Evan Hansen  _ tickets - that’s the show she’s been talking about nonstop for, like, three weeks - but it’s sold out through January.”

“That’s rough, bro.” Michael pressed B a couple times, and his sprite got a power-up. “Anything else good on Broadway she’d wanna see?”

“I mean, maybe. But if it’s not a show she’s super pumped about, it’s probably not worth the drive.”

Michael thought for a minute over the backdrop of the game’s charming 8-bit music and their clicking controller buttons. “You can do a nice printed photo collage, I’ve seen some people do that,” he offered up, glancing at Jeremy to his right. “Or one of those town-wide scavenger hunts.”

“Eh, that’s more of a promposal type of thing,” Jeremy countered, not unkindly. “Plus, I want it to be unique to her.”

“Fair enough. Well hey, I know you’ll think of something, man.”

They sat in their beanbag chairs playing in silence for a little while, Michael’s stomach tying itself into little tiny knots in the meantime. He couldn’t help but sense that something had changed between them ever since senior year started. He and Jeremy were still best friends (duh), but there was just a different vibe between them lately that Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on. Silences like this used to be totally comfortable, for example. Now it’s a little awkward, like they should be talking about the game they’re playing or school or something. Maybe it’s just the whirlwind of senior year activity, or the stress of college applications, or Jeremy’s new job, or...something. But Michael couldn’t help but to fear the worst.

_ Oh come on, dude, you know Jeremy still loves you,  _ Michael had to tell himself more and more lately.  _ You’re his favorite person. He’s said so a thousand times. It’s all good. You’re just over-analyzing again. _

 

“I’m starting to overanalyze again.”

Dr. Fields leans forward in her chair, eyebrows raised inquisitively. “About what?”

“Uh...about a lot of stuff, I guess, but...mostly about Jeremy,” Michael admitted.

“M-hm.” Dr. Fields drummed her fingers on the little circular coffee table between them. Her office was bright and spacious, lots of natural sunlight streaming in through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows across the room. “Did something happen?”

Michael shook his head. “Not that I can think of. It’s just...I don’t know if it’s just in my head or something, but...I feel like we’re maybe growing apart a little bit?”

“Growing apart,” Dr. Fields repeated thoughtfully, and Michael nodded back at her. Dr. Fields had been Michael’s social anxiety therapist ever since she diagnosed him in eighth grade. She seemed to be on the younger side for someone with their doctorate degree, her big natural curls dyed pastel blue at the ends, and Michael had always appreciated her ability to relate to him as a young person. Before his very first visit way back when, he was terrified of being saddled with a crotchety old Freud-type guy, who would sit back in his armchair with a clipboard and grill Michael with deep questions he didn’t know the answers to. Dr. Fields (or Andrea, as he was welcome to call her, but he usually just stuck with Dr. Fields or the ever-casual Doc) was a far cry from Michael’s loosely-grounded expectation, in the best way. “How so?”

“Well, we’ve been hanging out less these past few weeks, and he’s spending more time with Christine.” Michael didn’t have to clarify who Christine was - he’s told Dr. Fields so much about Jeremy over the years that she could probably pick him out of a lineup by now. “I don’t know, it just kinda seems like...like he’s getting bored of me, in a way.”

“I’m sorry, Michael. I know how upsetting that must be,” she said gently. “If I may ask...did you consider doing what we talked about last week?”

He felt his nerves kick in again, his mind going back to earlier that day. “Uh...I did, actually,” he told her, and her face brightened with pride. “And I actually got really close to telling him. But...”

 

After planning and re-planning out what he was going to say, Michael decided to finally break the silence after a while. “Do the controls feel kinda finicky to you?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed. “I don’t know if I like the whole increased immunity thing with the ghosts, either. It defeats the whole purpose of the original, you know?”

“Exactly!” Michael exclaimed a little too eagerly, cringing as soon as he said it. “I mean, yeah, exactly. Can’t believe you spent thirty-five bucks on this thing.”

Jeremy took one hand off his controller to smack Michael lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, lay off, asswipe. You were the one who wanted to play it so bad in the first place!”

“And you were the one gullible enough to buy it anyway.”

They both chuckled, falling back into a slightly more comfortable silence than before.

_ Now’s the time, _ Michael thought.

It was something he’d actually planned to do last year, right before the whole SQUIP fiasco ruined his timing. He had been wanting to come out for a while prior to that, but the thought of telling his parents he was gay scared the shit out of him. Since the thought of coming out to Jeremy scared a little less of the shit out of him, he decided to tell Jeremy first as a sort of trial run before telling his parents. And right when he was all ready to do it,  _ bam,  _ Jeremy started dating Christine. Michael didn’t want to dampen their honeymoon phase with the heavy confession (even though he knew Jeremy wouldn’t even bat an eyelash), and stuff kept getting in the way, and he kept putting it off and off and off until he realized if he didn’t ‘fess up soon, he’d be dampening their  _ anniversary _ mood. 

Funny how shit comes full circle like that. 

So with Dr. Field’s seal of approval, he made up his mind that once and for all, anxiety be damned, he would tell Jeremy today, right now.

He took a deep breath, heart pounding in his throat. “Hey man, can I talk to you about something?”

Jeremy must have sensed the tension in Michael’s voice, because he pressed pause on his controller and set it down to give Michael his full attention. “Yeah dude, what’s up?”

Michael put his own controller down and stared back at Jeremy for a second. “Um…”  _ Go. Now. Starter pistol firing. Spit it out.  _ “I-”

_ “PARA BAILAR LA BAMBA!” _

As if divinely summoned, the ringtone Michael set on Jeremy’s phone as a joke last week started blaring from his pocket.

“Oh my God sorry sorry sorry sorry” Jeremy apologized profusely, finagling the phone out of his pocket at lightning speed and looking at the Caller ID. Michael peeked over at the screen and saw it was Christine. Of course.

If this were under any other circumstances, Michael would be trapped in a laughing fit right now, but he was anything but amused. He was starting to think that the universe wanted him to stay in the closet forever. “You can take that if you want, dude.”

“No, you were saying something,” said Jeremy, but he didn’t decline the call, Valens Richie’s velvety-smooth Spanish continuing to cloud Michael’s brain.

“It’s fine, just answer it,” he insisted weakly, and Jeremy nodded reluctantly and pressed ‘accept,’ holding the phone up to his ear. 

“Hi, love,” he said, his voice taking on a sweetness that made Michael’s pulse pick up just a bit. He grabbed his own phone and started scrolling through Twitter to pass the time. “Nothing much, just hanging with Michael.” 

Michael flashed him a peace sign without looking up from his phone. 

“Christine says hi,” Jeremy told him aside.

“Hey, Christine. Ask her how the script’s coming.”

Christine must’ve heard him, because the voice coming out of Jeremy’s receiver got even more shrill than before, if possible. “She wants to talk to you about it,” Jeremy explained with a smile, handing the phone to Michael.

Michael took it and put it to his ear. “Okay Tina, lay it on me. What happens with Rapscallion in scene six?”

“Oh em gee, you’re gonna  _ die _ when I tell you!” Christine nearly screamed at him. “You know that plot hole with Rap’s mom and how she managed to escape the island? Well, I  _ fixed _ it, and bonus: it actually ended up turning Molfrey’s identity into a  _ surprise reveal  _ in scene eight! Isn’t that so rad?!”

“The raddest,” Michael affirmed with a smile, looking at Jeremy. He was beaming, cheeks flushed a little. This was a relatively new face in Jeremy’s expression lexicon; he only started grinning like that once he and Christine got together. “I can’t wait to read the whole thing when you’re done.”

Christine giggled into the speaker. “Aww, thanks, Michael! You’ll be the first person I come to for rough draft suggestions!”

“I’m honored.” He pushed his glasses up and handed the phone back to Jeremy, half-tuning into the rest of their conversation as he returned to the Twitter drama currently unfolding on his timeline. He couldn’t deny that she and Jeremy were a good match. She encouraged his creative side, and he kept her grounded.

 

“...I kinda got interrupted. By Christine, of all people.”

Dr. Fields laughed a little. “Oh, boy. Isn’t the universe so funny that way?”

“That’s what I said!” Michael supposed it  _ was  _ kinda funny now that he was talking about it out loud. “But it still ticked me off a little. Like, that was the  _ perfect  _ time, and I’ve been procrastinating on it forever…”

“You weren’t procrastinating,” Dr. Fields told him. “Coming out to Jeremy isn’t a homework assignment. It’s not something you’re obligated to do. It’s just something you feel will benefit your relationship with your own identity and your relationship with him, right?” Michael nodded in agreement. “So there’s no need to feel bad about not doing it yet. Don’t beat yourself up. This stuff is difficult, okay? You’re doing just fine.”

That made him feel a little better, but he was still disgruntled about the whole thing. “I mean, Jesus, if it’s been  _ this _ hard telling him I’m gay, how am I gonna tell him I -” He declined to finish that thought, trailing off.

Dr. Fields understood him perfectly. “Again, not something you’re obligated to tell him.”

“I know, I know, but I want to. Eventually. Definitely not now, though.” Michael sighed, prompted to continue by Dr. Fields’ expectant gaze. “I’ll probably wait till after they break up. That’ll make things less weird.”

“You might be right about that,” she concurred.

God, he really did enjoy going to therapy. It was nice to spill all your secrets to someone who was legally bound to keep them that way. 

He thought for a little bit about everything, and a pang of sadness hit him.“I just...it sucks, you know? Seeing him in such a happy relationship. I’m glad for him and everything, obviously, but it just...really, really sucks.” Michael felt the back of his throat get tight, and he grabbed a tissue from the coffee table just in case. “Jesus, even his dad knows! Did I ever tell you that?” Dr. Fields shook her head, surprised. “And now that it seems like he’s getting bored of me, I feel even more pathetic. He’ll think I’m coming out to him as some desperate ploy to get him to keep hanging out with me." He knew that his anxiety was piloting his train of thought right now, but he didn't care. "And the worst part is, if he leaves me behind, I barely have any other friends at all to hang out with. At least none that I trust anywhere as much as him. How sad is that?”

Dr. Fields looked at him for a long, hard while. “Not sad at all,” she said finally. “Not sad at all. All you’re doing is seeking the most basic kind of validation: validation from your loved ones. That's nothing to be ashamed of. And your orientation is not and never will be a ‘ploy,’ understand? Even if Jeremy interprets your coming-out like that, which you know he won’t, it has nothing to do with him or how he’s been treating you lately. You’ve been gay for  _ far _ longer than this little rough patch, right?”

Michael sniffled, bringing the tissue to his nose. “Right.”

“And that’s all it is: a rough patch. Every friendship has its own natural peaks and valleys that they go through over time. Wouldn’t you consider that mess with the computers a valley in your relationship?” Michael had explained the SQUIP incident to her, and while he wasn’t 100% sure she believed him, it certainly proved useful to reference in their sessions.

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“And you guys bounced back from it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So just think of this as another valley. It’s a natural part of long-term friendships, even the strongest of bonds. You two are going to be fine. And I’m proud of you for almost telling him today,” she continued with a coy smile. “Pardon my French, but that probably took a lot of balls.”

Michael laughed, wiping his eyes. “It sure did. Thanks, Doc.” 

“My pleasure. Remember: peaks and valleys. Think about that this week.”

As he said goodbye to Dr. Fields and left the psychiatry office, he hoped that she was right, for all their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, more to come soon! Come talk to me on my [tumblr!](http://www.beachcitywalkfries.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

“So if we’re rewriting this function into vertex form, we obviously need the coordinates of its vertex first. So we’ll set it up like this and complete the square…”

Michael was half-listening to his teacher talk about quadratic functions as he doodled in the margins of his math notebook. Mrs. MacEvoy, a middle-aged woman who probably loved precalculus more than her husband, wasn’t a bad teacher by any means. Michael just really,  _ really  _ hated math. Especially on Monday mornings.

He focused hard on getting the shading right on the apple he was drawing - he admired still lifes, especially the Caravaggio ones with fruit - pausing occasionally to look up at Mrs. MacEvoy so it might look like he was actually sort of listening. Every time he lifted his head, she always seemed to be glancing at him, which was fine by him. Everyone knows that teachers like you better if you make eye contact and nod during their lecture. Makes them feel like they’re being heard. Michael understood.

One math-related thing that Michael  _ could  _ get down with was the Fibonacci spiral, even though it, much like every other damn thing he’s ever learned in any math class, has no practical use outside school. Well, actually, maybe in art. He scrawled out a couple of them after finishing the apple, using the graphing squares printed on his notebook to accurately measure the golden ratio. They were starting to overtake his existing notes (not that they make sense to him anyway) when the bell rang, finally dismissing the class.

“That’s all for today, folks,” announced Mrs. MacEvoy chipperly as everyone scrambled to pack up their things. “Make sure to do the problems in the textbook pages assigned on the webpage for tomorrow. Have a great rest of your Monday! Try not to fall asleep!”

Michael shoved his notebook into his backpack and zipped it up. As he stood up and his hands moved instinctively to his neck to put his headphones back up over his ears, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned around to see a small, mousy girl that sits two rows behind him. 

“Hi Michael!” she said, bouncing up and down a little bit on the balls of her feet. “What’s up?”

“Hey, uh…”  _ Oh God, what’s her name again? Emily? Ellie? Emma?  _ “...um, nothing much, I guess.”

Her enthusiastic smile remained undeterred by his lukewarm response. “Cool! Well, I’m having my eighteenth birthday party this Saturday, and I was hoping you would come!” She handed him a little bright pink piece of paper, and Michael accepted it tentatively. “It’s gonna be at the bowling alley on Cooper Street. I figured everyone likes bowling, right?”

It didn’t really register with Michael at first that her question wasn’t rhetorical. After an awkward beat, he looked up from the paper at her expectant glance. “Oh...yeah, right. I...guess I like bowling.” The last time he went bowling with Jeremy, they smoked right before going in and ended up staying for, like, four hours. But he doubted Jeremy would be invited to this thing. He’d be surprised if anyone he vaguely knew was invited, seeing as he’d barely ever spoken to this girl. Why was she even inviting  him? This type of social gathering was a recipe for Michael’s own personal worst nightmare. 

“Uh...I’ll let you know...?” he offered up lamely, just to be nice.

That seemed to be enough for her. “Awesome!” she squeaked, not unlike Christine whenever she got really excited about something. “Just RSVP to the number at the bottom of the invitation. See you tomorrow!” And with that, she turned around and headed for the door, leaving Michael alone in the classroom (even Mrs. MacEvoy had left to make room for the next period’s teacher).

Michael took another look at the invitation to Erin’s (oh,  _ that’s  _ her name) party. It was handwritten in glitter puffy paint, with the exception of a little glued-on Clipart picture of a pair of headphones.  _ Is that really my identifier?  _ he thought in a moment of existential crisis.  _ Am I just known as Headphones Kid?  _ At least she put some thought into representing his perceived interests, he’ll give her that. He was already planning some half-assed excuse about being out of town or at a family thing or catching the Black Plague and dying (or maybe something more realistic like the flu) to avoid going.

As he walked out of the classroom into the hallway crowded of students and put a Rolling Stones album on shuffle, he checked a recent text from his mom. 

_ “Call Me XOXO” _

Michael felt his stomach drop like he was on a rollercoaster. Oh jeez, what the hell could _that_ entail? Whenever his mom wanted him to call her while he was at school, it was because what she had to say was too long to type out. That could mean anything, negative or not. The last time, it was because his dad was in the hospital for minor injuries after getting in a car accident going to work, so his hopes weren’t very high.

He checked the clock on the wall and decided he could afford to be late to his Ceramics class. His teacher was pretty chill and probably wouldn’t care if Michael told him it was because of an emergency. Dodging the rush of kids coming at him from the opposite direction, Michael ducked into the boy’s bathroom. No one seemed to be in there, so he gave himself the all-clear to pull up his mom’s contact and call her.

“Hi _ , mijo,”  _ his mom greeted him, picking up on the second ring. Her voice sounded a little shaky.

“Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

She didn’t answer his question, instead asking, “How many more days do you have on your medication?”

Michael had to think about it. By medication, she meant his anti-anxiety pills. “Um...maybe five or six days left. Why?”

She sighed shakily, making Michael even more nervous than before. “Well, the insurance company called earlier…”  _ Oh God, this can’t be good.  _ “Our plan can only cover your medication through your next refill."

What.

"They said it’s because we didn’t pay last month’s deductible on time, but your father postmarked the check on the 31st…”

No. This wasn’t happening. 

Despite how much Michael complained all the time about his meds’ shitty side effects (mostly the nausea and weird bouts of dizziness), he obviously  _ needed  _ it. He’s been on the same brand for three years now, and money’s been really tight for his family lately after his dad’s company merged with a bigger one and he got demoted. How could their insurance company just leave them out to dry like that? And for such a fucking  _ stupid _ reason? 

“Are you serious?”

He heard his mom sniffle through the phone. “I’m so sorry, Michael. I promise you we’ll figure something out. Your dad’s calling the insurance people back right now. I scheduled you for another appointment with Dr. Fields after school today at 4, so you can talk to her about what we can do.” Another sniffle. Jesus Christ, he  _ hated  _ hearing his mom cry. “I’m sorry, baby. I really am. It’s me and Dad’s fault, but we’ll fix it.”

“No, stop, it’s nobody’s fault,” Michael reassured her, trying to fight back the tears welling up. “I’ll be fine, okay? Let’s just see what Dr. Fields has to say.”

His mom laughed a little through her own tears. “Always so good to your  _ mamá,  _ huh? I love you so much,  _ mijo. _ See you after your appointment.”

“Okay. Love you too, Mom. Bye.”

“Bye.”

His mom hung up first. He stared at the phone in his hand for a moment, processing, only to snap out of it when one of the toilets suddenly flushed. He didn’t think anyone was in there with him, and all he could do was stay where he was, paralyzed with embarrassment, as some random kid with stringy bleach-blond hair came out of the stall to wash his hands. 

The guy gave Michael a pitying look. “That’s rough, dude.”

It was all he could do to not start crying again as he turned around and left the bathroom without a word.

 

“So they can just pull their coverage like that? Is that in the fine print or something?”

Dr. Fields sighed. “Sometimes, if an insurance company feels that one of its policy holders is ‘at risk’ for not paying their premium or deductibles,” she explained, complete with air quotes, “then they reserve the right to treat that policy holder as a liability, which means they stop paying for extraneous stuff. It’s the same reason why your car insurance premiums go up if you get into an accident.”

Michael felt the rage boiling up. “So my mental illness is a liability? The pills that help me get up in the morning are ‘extraneous’?” 

“I know it’s frustrating,” said Dr. Fields, giving him her signature comforting look that Michael had dubbed the ‘mom gaze,’ “and I know it’s even more frustrating to feel like your condition doesn’t matter in their eyes. But there are solutions to be found here. This has happened to a few of my patients in the past, and they’ve all found ways to circumvent the red tape. It just takes some time.”

“How  _ much  _ time?”

“That I don’t know. But rest assured, my team and I will make sure that you’re fully supported while your parents settle the issues with your current insurance plan. For starters, you can start coming in here for an extra session every week, free of charge. Is that something you think will be helpful to you?”

Michael just smiled politely back at her. Don’t get him wrong, Dr. Fields was great and all, but she just wasn’t enough. It was great to talk to her to get his feelings out and talk about coping strategies and stuff like that, but going to her was no substitute for good old-fashioned selective serotonin reuptake inhibition. Doc helped him work through the emotional side of his anxiety, but his pills really did the heavy lifting with the chemical side of it. 

Still, it was super nice of her to offer those extra sessions; he knew they were pricey. “Yeah, that might help out, thank you so much.”

“The pleasure is mine. It’s been a joy getting to know you over the years. It’s the least I can do," she told him, beaming. "Also, something we’ve done for patients that have been in your situation is direct them to organizations like Together Rx Access that can help you pay for your meds in the meantime. We’ll help you fill out all the application paperwork. It’s only a little boring,” she reassured him with a wink. “I have to warn you, though, it’ll be harder for you to qualify for any aid since you’re on the younger side, and the applications usually take several months to process. I recommend we start on them soon, so that we can always cancel your aid in case your insurance issue is resolved sooner than we thought. Sound like a plan?”

Oh, it was a plan, alright, but not one that Michael really had a lot of hope in. “Uh-huh. Sounds like a plan.”

 

The idea came to him later that night while he was coming down from a pretty weak high - he’s gotta get a new dealer if Andrew Gensburg keeps ripping him off like this - right as he cracked open his third Crystal Pepsi. Ask and ye shall receive, says the Bible, and Michael nearly got down on his knees to thank God when he saw that they were doing a limited-edition return this summer. At least now he wasn’t drinking his 90’s nostalgia with a side of foodborne illness. He wasn’t able to stomach any soda for weeks after the whole SQUIP incident, but he figured that force-feeding your best friend 30-year-old Mountain Dew Red to exorcise a supercomputer demon from his brain can do that to a guy. 

He grimaced at the memory, and a mouthful of impossibly clear Pepsi accidentally went down his windpipe. He sputtered, liquid flying everywhere, and sat there trapped on his bed in a coughing fit for a solid minute. He was reminded of the first time he smoked, sophomore year in his older brother’s dorm room at Rutgers when he went to visit one weekend. He could barely hold a hit for all of two seconds before turning into a hyperventilating mess, Henry and his buddies teasing him mercilessly for it. Fifteen-year-old Michael almost couldn’t handle the embarrassment, but Lord knows he turned right around and gave Jeremy shit for doing the same thing the first time he agreed to smoke with him. As hilarious as it was, it was also weirdly cathartic in a way; seeing a piece of your own experience in somebody else. Somebody you care about.

Jeremy.

Michael groaned, grabbing a pillow and shoving his face into it. The way Jeremy was talking to Christine on the phone yesterday, all perky and annoying and lovey-dovey _ , _ made him want to puke. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand being around it. Around  _ them. _

He didn’t hate Christine, not at all. She was sweet, funny (in that quirky Zooey Deschanel kind of way), easy to talk to, and just an overall  _ good person _ . He couldn’t hate her even if he tried (and rest assured, he’d tried). He was just having a little trouble differentiating hatred from burning, all-consuming, overwhelming jealousy. 

The jealousy that reared its ugly head every time Michael saw Jeremy and Christine having fun together, every time Jeremy got a text from her, every time he mentioned her in conversation. His face always lit up in excitement whenever he talked about her, almost like the mere sound of her name was enough to shake off the day’s worth of stress.

That’s who Michael had always wanted to be for Jeremy. All this time, at the end of the day after all the pining and stolen glances and sad unrequited bullshit, Michael always wanted to make Jeremy happy. And for twelve years, it had worked. But he was feeling himself drifting further and further away from Jeremy’s orbit, because that’s Christine’s thing now. And Jeremy loves her, and she loves him, and Jeremy’s happy, and that’s cool and great and awesome and Michael’s so happy for them. 

He might not have  _ actually _ been happy for them, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try and act like it.

So yeah, between him trying to come out and harboring the world’s most pathetic crush and having his best (and only) friend start to slip out of his reach, this was literally the  _ worst  _ possible time for his insurance company and his brain to fuck him over like this.

Despair suddenly hit him like a freight train.

_ Oh God, what the hell am I gonna do? _

He looked up, and his glance fell on a long-forgotten 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew Red, just barely poking out of its Spencer’s Gifts bag from underneath his dresser across the room. Huh, he thought he had shoved that into the back of his closet a long time ago. 

An epiphany came to him suddenly, so suddenly he almost couldn’t process all the thought tangents zipping through his head all at once. Gut churning, he set the pillow down and got up, walking towards the dresser with his feet inches away from the bottle. He stared down at it, feeling himself teetering on the edge of something colossal, before getting to work. He rifled manically through his backpack, his wallet, all his drawers, and the empty tin of mixed nuts on top of the dresser that held his unspent birthday money and loose change, until he had a sizable fistful of bills and coins. 

Tallying up the total, he grumbled when he came up just short. In desperation, he got down on his hands and knees and searched in all the little nooks and crannies of his room, collecting every coin he spotted, not stopping to further consider if this was a good idea or not. He calculated the total again, using an old McDonald’s receipt as scratch paper, and grinned at the final number he’d written down - 

400.32.

(It was a crazy plan.

It was a risky plan.

It was a stupid, hypocritical, almost-guaranteed-to-go-wrong-in-some-way plan.

It was perfect.

It was all he had left.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind comments on the first chapter, hope you guys like this one, too! Just a quick note: I know the accepted Michael headcanon is that he's Filipino, but since George Salazar is also half-Ecuadorian, I made Michael's mom Ecuadorian. Thank you for reading; this is my first multi-chapter fic that I've written in a LONG time, so it's nice to get back into the groove of paced writing! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Michael stepped into the Payless in the mall and took a deep breath. Cheap air freshener, gym shoe rubber, and a stale, slightly moldy scent that reminded him of mothballs. 

Glancing around at the nearly empty store, he felt his heart start to climb up in his throat. For stuff like this, Jeremy was normally right by his side. He’s hung out with Michael at every school dance, helped him come up with “scripts” for important phone calls and emails, and even tagged along when he went to refill his prescription without his mom for the first time.  But Michael’s heart sank when he reminded himself that this was something that Jeremy could never, ever know about.

He started down a random aisle, taking feigned interest in the high heels while looking around for that creepy dude who he and Jeremy bought the SQUIP from last time.  _ Does he even work here anymore?  _ Michael thought with sudden horror.  _ What if he’s stopped selling them? Maybe the FBI tracked him down and he’s in jail. Maybe they’re watching me  _ right now.  _ Oh man, this cash in my pocket is gonna be hella incriminating. What if- _

His anxious musings were interrupted when he accidentally ran into a guy in front of him without looking. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry I didn’t…”

“Let’s see the money, kid.”

It took Michael a second to recognize the Wolverine sideburns and the sinister glare. “Oh, uh...yeah, yeah.” He wondered how he could always guess which kids were there to buy a SQUIP. Must be a talent. “Four hundred, right?”

“Five,” the stockboy corrected gruffly, to Michael’s dismay. “I heard about the shitshow that went down at your school’s play, so I raised my rates. Liability charges.”

Against his will, Michael’s eyes started to water, and he prayed to God that he wouldn’t start crying in front of this terrifying man-child with rotting teeth who had the key to his happiness in his hands (more specifically, in a ladies’ running shoe box). “B-but I only have four hundred. Please, you  _ gotta _ throw me a bone here, dude, I’m desperate.”

The stockboy scoffed at him. “Well, I’m desperate for a nice girl to go out with me, but I guess neither of us are ever getting what we want,” he spat bitterly, and Michael briefly wondered if he’d ever get to unlock this guy’s inevitably tragic backstory. “Scram.”

“You don’t understand,” Michael started to explain hastily, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “I don’t want this thing to make me cool, or popular, or help me ace the SAT or whatever. I need it to replace my anxiety medication. My family can’t afford it anymore.” He watched as the look of loathing on the stockboy’s face slowly softened into one of genuine concern. “I’ve thought it all through. I have a bottle of Mountain Dew Red and everything, just in case something goes wrong. I’m not gonna be a...liability. I swear.” Wiping his eyes with his hoodie sleeve, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the $400 in bills and coins, holding it out to the stockboy. “Just...please help me. I really, really need this.”

The stockboy contemplated the pile of money for a moment before heaving an irritated sigh and taking it from Michael’s hand. “Fine, you sad little shit, but you owe me one. And let’s be clear,” he insisted, turning and indicating Michael to follow him towards the back shelves. “If something  _ does _ go wrong, you  _ didn’t _ get it from me. Got it?”

Michael basked in the glow of his argumentative victory. Maybe he should be the one in Drama Club, not Jeremy. “Yeah, I got it. Thank you so much, man, I literally can’t thank you enough.”

“You can thank me by making sure I never see your picture on the eleven-o'clock news,” the stockboy warned, in a tone so foreboding that it made the hair on Michael’s arms stand on end. 

He pulled a pink shoebox off the tallest shelf and handed it to Michael. When Michael took the box, he sensed an unexplainable energy passing over him for just an instant. Probably just his imagination running wild with all this excitement and danger.

“Here you go. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind about the extra Benjamin.”

He didn’t have to tell Michael twice.

 

The Mountain Dew next to him was getting warm, but Michael was still fixated on the pill. It was solid grey at the ends, but the center was more opaque. If you looked really hard at the inside of the pill, you could see something resembling a tiny little circuit board nestled in there. It was actually very eye-catching, and Michael had spent the past ten minutes examining it (and mostly stalling, but hey).

He’d planned out exactly what he was going to say to his SQUIP, using what Jeremy and Rich had told him about their SQUIPs as reference. Apparently their main function is to “improve your life,” but Michael wanted to make it crystal-clear to his SQUIP that its function was to regulate his neurotransmitters, and nothing else. Giving it too much power would definitely be a slippery slope leading to a disaster not unlike Jeremy’s, so Michael needed to keep it on a tight leash.

Even still, the idea of bossing around an all-powerful supercomputer that had total control over his thoughts made him queasy.

_ Let’s get this over with. _

He set the shoebox on the ground and cracked open the bottle of Mountain Dew, taking care not to drop the SQUIP. Right as he was poised to swallow the pill and wash it down, he gave the capsule one last consideration. There was still time to back out, to cut his losses and just take the cards life had dealt him fair and square.

But the thing is, it wasn’t fair (nor square). He didn’t deserve his anxiety. His parents deserved to take the money they normally spend on his meds and spend it on something more worthwhile. 

He deserved to be happy.

“Alright, Japan, do your worst,” he said aloud to no one in particular, putting the pill on his tongue and swallowing it with a mouthful of Mountain Dew. It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth.

_ And now we wait. _

Jeremy told him that it takes a few minutes to kick in. And when it does kick in, it hurts like a  _ bitch.  _ Michael took this information to heart and positioned himself in the very center of his bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets for maximum comfort. He sat there perfectly still for good thirty seconds until the nervousness started eating him alive. To pass the time, he unlocked his phone and went straight to Google.

“Paxil withdrawal anxiety side effects”

_ In many cases, those with anxiety disorders who stop taking Paxil do not experience severe withdrawal effects, especially with the continuation of cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT)... _

Huh. That didn’t sound too horrible. Oh jeez, he totally rushed into this like an idiot.

_ However, some patients have reported moderate to severe withdrawal effects, including flu-like symptoms, vertigo, severe sensory disturbances, increased anxiety/agitation, and suicidal thoughts. These effects are especially prevalent in long-term users of Paxil. _

Well, shit. Maybe not.

He rationalized his decision by reminding himself that because his SQUIP would be inside his brain, it would be more effective than any SSRI, possibly more than any therapist. He remembered back in middle school when he wasn’t always terrified of saying something stupid or hyper-paranoid about whether people thought he was weird. With this SQUIP, he’d finally have his life back.

Not wanting to think about the specifics anymore, he opened up Instagram. He scrolled down through about a dozen pictures of his classmates, all the captions having something to do with autumn or college apps. 

And then he came across a picture Jeremy had posted a couple hours ago. It was a selfie he’d taken with Christine hanging on his shoulder. They're both smiling so cheerfully that it made Michael smile too, without thinking.

Going on a year, but time stands still when I’m with you ❤️

Michael stared at Jeremy’s face for what felt like hours, his chest tightening in a way he couldn’t explain if he tried.

**_Target male inaccessible._ **

Michael yelped in alarm at the sudden presence, and a searing pain suddenly shot through his head as if someone was wringing his brain out like a wet towel. “AH! JESUS  _ CHRIST!”  _ he shrieked, grabbing the nearest pillow just in time to scream into it.

**_Calibration in process. Please excuse some mild discomfort._ **

He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t  _ think  _ as a white-hot energy took hold of him, like he’d just stuck his finger in an electrical socket. It was all he could do but lay there in child’s pose, spitting every curse word he knew into the fabric of his pillowcase. He grabbed the sides of his head, digging his nails hard into the skin around his ears, as if that would keep his skull from splitting apart. “STOP!  _ STOP! MAKE IT STOP! _ ”

**_Calibration complete. Access procedure initiated. Discomfort level may increase._ **

_ “No shit!”  _ Michael hissed through gritted teeth, just before a second wave of agonizing pain wracked his entire body. A grating mechanical drone filled his head, the sound of a laser slicing his cranium open.

**_Accessing neural memory. Accessing muscle memory._ **

_ I’m dying, _ he realized as he began to sob into the pillow.  _ This must be what death feels like. That’s God’s voice calibrating my spirit for the afterlife. Fuck, I haven’t been to Confession in, like, eight months... _

**_Access procedure complete._ **

And just like that, the pain was gone. Michael groaned in relief, taking a long moment to collect himself (he even heard himself start to mutter the words to the Act of Contrition under his breath). He’d almost forgotten about that eerie-ass voice, until:

**_Michael Mell._ **

He lifted his head, cheeks shiny with tears, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Standing there at the foot of his bed was a tall Japanese guy in a black suitjacket, a white button-up shirt, black slacks, and shiny black shoes. He was older, probably in his early 60s, with round wire-rimmed glasses perched in front of jovial eyes.

Michael tried to speak, but nothing came out.

**_Welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor...your SQUIP!_ **

No. Fucking. Way. 

“You’re…” Michael had to quickly pinch his own arm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Or dead. “...Toru Iwatani?”

The man smiled warmly.  **_Yes, it appears so._ **

Michael couldn’t help the grin that split across his face. He’d experience that installation pain a thousand times if it meant he could experience this moment over again. 

He giggled, almost hysterical. “You gotta be kiddin’ me...this is crazy! I’m, like, your biggest fan! Check out my tattoo!” he exclaimed all in one ecstatic breath, pushing up his right sleeve to reveal his Pac-Man tattoo. 

Toru took a look at it, still maintaining the same unreadably bemused expression, and Michael quickly rolled his sleeve back down. 

“It’s such an honor to meet you, sir,” he continued sheepishly, knowing that he was making an ass out of himself but making a mental exception for himself because  _ holy shit, the creator of Pac-Man was in his room _ . “This...this can’t be real.”

**_Correct. I am but a figment of your imagination,_ ** Toru-but-not-really-Toru replied.  **_I have several other image configuration options. Would you like me to list them?_ **

“Oh my God, no no no, this is  _ amazing, _ ” Michael insisted, standing up from his bed and self-consciously brushing the wrinkles out of his hoodie. “But wait...how are you talking to me? Don’t you only speak Japanese?”

**_I_ ** **am** **_speaking Japanese. Your brain is simply translating me in real time into the language you comprehend best. You can also understand me in Filipino,_ ** he explained, his speech seamlessly shifting into Michael’s second language, then into his third:  **_or in Spanish._ **

“Holy shit,” Michael breathed, dumbfounded.

Toru chuckled.  **_So, shall we begin?_ **

Michael had almost forgotten his plan, and now it seemed stupid to lecture this elderly guy about his demands. “Oh, uh, yeah. I just…I had a really specific function for you in mind…”

**_You would like me to act as a neurochemical regulation system._ **

This whole mind-reading thing was gonna take some getting used to. “Yeah, exactly. I know that SQUIPs usually help you, uh, be ‘cool,’ but I figured that’ll be a byproduct of whatever you can do.”

**_Not a completely unfounded assumption, but not completely correct, either. I can do what you ask as a background task of sorts, but I must also give you direct advice about your actions, words, and day-to-day routines in the way all other SQUIPs do. These behavioral appraisals will complement my neurochemical work in such a way that it will feel natural. Is this acceptable?_ **

Michael sighed. He was never a good negotiator. The whole “telling you what to say and do” thing was sort of a dealbreaker for him, but it didn’t seem like his SQUIP meant for him to wear Eminem t-shirts or attempt to sleep with three different people concurrently, so it couldn’t be that bad of a deal.

Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

“Yeah, that’s fine, I guess. What do we do first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! More to come soon :)


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